The novel sits inside me like an elephant
taking up all the room
I obsess about the characters
as though they are family
depending on me for advice
how will they get through this
I cry for them
the kind of crying that heaves
and leaves you sore
and then the last page comes
as it always does
how can I miss people I’ve never known
I suppress the urge to track down the author
just a few questions
weeks later
it is all so diluted
bits of emotion hang on
like plastic bags in trees
I feel guilty for moving on
and I want to tell them
you reminded me how to weep
in this way
you existed.